Something⁠—either in my continued silence or in the movement of my hand, stitching⁠—transported M. Emanuel beyond the last boundary of patience; he actually sprang from his estrade . The stove stood near my desk, he attacked it; the little iron door was nearly dashed from its hinges, the fuel was made to fly.

“ Est-ce que vous avez l’intention de m’insulter? ” 125 said he to me, in a low, furious voice, as he thus outraged, under pretence of arranging the fire.

It was time to soothe him a little if possible.

“ Mais, Monsieur ,” said I, “I would not insult you for the world. I remember too well that you once said we should be friends.”